The Raven and the Writing Desk
by MaladyOfReverie
Summary: AU. In an attempt to distract himself from the boredom of civilian life, ex-Army doctor John Watson turns to writing crime fiction and books a six-week stay in a Sussex retreat. There he meets arrogant essayist Sherlock Holmes, a man who is to change his life beyond the point of return, and be changed by him in turn.
1. Chapter 1

As always, John Watson arrived perfectly on time. In this instance, however, that could not be attributed to his military promptness, but the miraculous occurrence of a train journey from Central London with no delays. Determined not to request assistance with his bag, he hauled it over his shoulder and stumbled over the gap between the train and the platform, wincing as his injured leg almost gave out under him despite the support of his cane. He knew full well that there was nothing wrong with asking a porter for assistance – after all, that was what they were paid for – but he couldn't stand the thought of being pitied.

"John! John Watson!"

He turned to see a rather short, stubby man approach him, who he recognised as Mike Stamford, the warzone journalist he had met in Afghanistan a few years before and the man who had first told him about The Gables, a writing retreat buried in the English countryside. "It'll be good for you," he'd said. "Get away from the world, get some R&R." John had told him that he sounded like his therapist. It was thanks to her that he had first taken up writing. He'd never been a huge reader, but as she had told him, fiction replaces reality with adventure. That was what he craved. He had been warned before he left for Afghanistan that readjusting to civilian life would be incredibly difficult, but no amount of warning could have prepared him for the torture of a return to a life of suffocating monotony.

Mike Stamford approached him and shook his hand. "How was your journey?"

"Fine, thank you," John replied. "It was kind of you to offer to give me a lift to the retreat."

"Not at all. You're doing me a favour – I don't leave the place often enough as it is!"

John smiled.

"Are you well?" Mike continued.

John shrugged. "Well enough. You?"

"Very well, thank you. Sussex air does wonders for your health. Right, then, let's get going. Do you need any help with your bag?"

"No," John replied immediately. A moment later he realised he might have sounded snappish, and added: "Sorry. No, I can manage."

"Alright then. This way."

Mike turned, and led the way along the platform and down into a small carpark. His car was the nearest to the stairs leading down from the platform, and whether he had chosen the space out of laziness or consideration for his friend, John was unsure. He said nothing, however, and loaded his bag into the boot, then seated himself in the passenger seat, resting his cane at his side. Despite his generally sociable nature, John wasn't in much of a mood for conversation, so he brushed aside Mike's various attempts at smalltalk throughout the journey with one-word answers (as politely as possible, of course) and otherwise remained silent.

* * *

Around twenty minutes later, the car rolled onto a winding road that led into a courtyard in the centre of a large farm. Mike parked between a black Land Rover and a pink Mini Cooper, then stepped out and opened the boot. Leaning on his cane, John followed, suppressing a grunt as he lifted his bag back onto his shoulder. Mike was about to lead John up to the main house when an older woman with a kindly face came hurrying towards them.

"Ah, Mrs Hudson!" Mike grinned. "Delivery for you!"

Mrs Hudson extended a hand towards John, and, wanting to make a good first impression, he shifted his bag further onto his shoulder to shake it. "John Watson," he said, with the warmest smile he could manage given his discomfort.

"I've been so looking forward to meeting you, dear!" she said. "Welcome to The Gables! Come on, I'll show you your room."

She led the way towards one of the cottages that formed part of the border of the courtyard. It was a very pretty building, as were all the others. It was not particularly large, but certainly not tiny, and almost entirely masked with thick green ivy, which cleared only to make room for bay windows and a surprisingly spotless black door adorned with a brass 'B'. Mrs Hudson produced a key and unlocked the door, then passed the key to John.

"This is yours, Dr. Watson!" she said. "Your room's at the top of the house – oh…" She broke off as she noticed that he was leaning on a cane. "Will you be able to manage that?"

"Of course," John replied, more brusquely than he intended. He offered her a smile in an attempt to remedy his rudeness. "Sorry. Just getting used to it."

"It's alright, dear," she said, "I've got a hip." She patted her hip as if to demostrate. "Well, I'll leave you to settle in. The writers usually come to dinner in the main house around seven. Feel free to come along and meet them!"

"Thank you," he said, "I will."

She nodded, then left the cottage, closing the door behind her. John sighed heavily as he looked up at the long spiral staircase leading up to his room, but he'd gotten himself into this situation, and he just had to bloody well deal with it. Gritting his teeth, he crossed the room, and, very slowly, climbed the stairs. When he reached the top, he dropped his bag onto the landing and sat down heavily beside it, resting his elbows on his knees and breathing deeply, catching his breath. He hated the necessity of rests like this – after all, he was a military man, and his stamina had once been a source of pride. Still, what was the point of lamenting an inescapable situation? He'd just have to learn to manage.

He gathered himself up and carried his bag into what was going to be his home for the next six weeks. It was a homely room, with cream walls decorated with watercolours of what appeared to be local landscapes and pressed wildflowers in wooden frames. There was a small oak bed against the right wall, and a window dominated the wall facing the door. A large and rather antique-looking desk was placed in front of the window, affording a view out onto the extensive grounds. It was equipped with writing paper and a typewriter, which were rather wasted on John, who preferred to use his laptop and an old notebook that had seen him through his time in service. He set his bag down on the bed and spent a while unpacking, enjoying his new freedom from the claustrophobia of London. Once he was finished, he took a brief shower in the little bathroom opposite his room and changed into clean clothes, then took up his cane and hobbled down the stairs, intending to take a walk and get to know a little of the area before dinner.

As he exited the cottage and locked the door behind him, a woman walked past him, then paused, and turned to look at him. "Are you staying there?" she asked.

"Uh, yes," John replied, slightly bewildered by her odd tone.

"Well, good luck," she all but sneered. "You're going to need it."

With that, she turned and went on her way, leaving John even more confused than he had been before. Still, he was determined to take his walk, so he brushed it off, and took a right out of the courtyard onto a footpath leading around the edge of a large cornfield and into a wood. As he walked, he tilted back his head, closed his eyes and drew a deep breath, revelling in the crisp clarity of the late autumn air. He soon found himself getting lost in his thoughts, which, as per usual, orbited his experiences of war. The soft dappled light that fell through the leaves above his head soothed him, but he had seen far too much to be so easily cured.

He became so deeply engulfed in his thoughts that he did not hear the thundering of hooves until the horse they belonged to was almost on top of him. He had reached a turning, and it was around this that the enormous black animal emerged. Its rider dug a thigh into its flank and whipped back its reins on one side, causing it to swerve violently, missing John so narrowly that he leapt back in shock, dropped his cane and fell backwards onto the ground. Despite its apparent sturdiness, the turn had unbalanced the horse, too, and it slipped on the thick bed of leaves that littered the path. Eyes widening and nostrils flaring in panic, the horse reared up onto its hind legs with such force that its hooves slipped out beneath its weight, and it too fell backwards. It would have crushed its rider had the man not been quick enough to throw himself to one side, slamming into the ground with a nauseating thud. The horse righted itself almost as soon as it had fallen, and, thus freed of its rider, bolted away along the path, tossing its gigantic head as it fled.

John had, by this time, recovered from his initial shock, and leaped up, rushing to the rider's side. "God, I'm so sorry – are you alright?" he asked, his voice thick with concern.

"Fine, no thanks to you," the man replied in a cold baritone. He jumped to his feet and brushed himself off, wincing when a sharp pain shot through his wrist.

"Here, show me," John said, offering an upturned palm to the clearly injured man. "I'm a doctor."

The other man fixed him with a glare that was made all the more piercing by his narrow, iridescent eyes, and seemed about to refuse, but much to John's surprise, his eyes darted over John's form with an almost reptilian quickness, and he placed his leather-gloved hand in John's offered palm. John very gently turned the man's hand to one side, and when he met with a faint hiss, said: "It looks like it could be broken. I can tend to it properly for you if you like – I'm staying at The Gables, it's not far from here-"

"I don't have time. Grab my horse, will you?" the other man replied.

John glanced in the direction the animal had gone, and saw it a rather long way off, grazing on a tuft of grass growing from the edge of the path.

"Some time this century would be nice," came the baritone.

"Right, yeah. Sorry," John said, slightly startled by the man's tone. He jogged briskly towards the horse in the hope of catching it before it could run any further. To his relief, the horse seemed to have entirely forgotten about its mishap, and was completely engrossed in its snack. Due to his very limited experience with horses, John was not entirely sure how to lead it, but its reins had fallen over his head, so he picked them up and gave a gentle tug. "Come on then… boy," he said, having cast a glance over the animal to ensure that it – he – was not badly hurt. The horse looked at him for a moment, then turned back to the grass. "Come on!" John urged again. However, his efforts turned out not to be necessary – the air was suddenly pierced by a long whistle, and the horse whipped up its head, and broke into a sudden gallop, snatching its reins from John's hand. John ran after it, but by the time he had caught up, its owner was already repositioned in the saddle.

"You, er- you probably shouldn't be doing that, what with your wrist and everything," John said, glancing up at the man.

The horseman scoffed. "Please. I've ridden with far worse predicaments than this before. Besides, it's not as if I require the the use of both of my hands – or either of them, for that matter – to far outdo any other rider you're likely to meet."

John was unsure of how to respond to such an explicitly arrogant claim, but he needn't have worried, as the rider promptly tipped his helmet and said "Good day." With that, he brought his crop down on his horse's hindquarters, and the pair disappeared along the path, leaving John in quite a state of disorientation.

* * *

He made his way back to the retreat in a sort of daze, his mind replaying his encounter with the pretentious man repeatedly as if his thoughts were set on loop. He was, now that John was able to reflect, a man of unusual appearance: tall and slender, though not at all ill-built, with dark curls that peeked out from beneath his helmet and framed his pale, angular features. There was something altogether ethereal about him, and John mused that, in novels in which appearance is symbolic, such a man as he would make an intriguing protagonist.

When he at last reached the retreat, the sun had fallen low in the sky, the last of its light casting a gentle orange glow over the farm. John thought it would make a picturesque postcard, and might have photographed it had he anyone to send a postcard to, but he did not. Checking his watch, he saw that it was just past seven, so instead of returning to his cottage he went directly to the main house, where he was greeted by Mrs Hudson with more enthusiasm than he had anticipated.

"Goodness, dear, I thought you might have gotten yourself lost! Come and sit by the fire, warm yourself up!" she said.

"Thank you, you're very kind," John mumbled, not wanting to draw too much attention to himself. He sat down in a large patchwork armchair in a lowered booth by the fire opposite a young woman with long mousey hair, who was bent intently over an ancient-looking book. Deciding it would be impolite to interrupt her, John instead glanced around the room and caught Mike's eye. His friend was sitting alone, and so he stood up and walked over to John.

"You know, a man had an accident while I was out," John said when he reached him.

"Oh, did he? What happened?" Mike asked.

John briefly recounted the story up to the point at which he had fallen.

"Dear God!" Mike exlaimed, eyes widening. "Were you alright?"

"Yeah, fine, but the rider wasn't. His horse slid across the leaves and fell onto its back, and the man leaped off and broke his wrist. I offered to help him with it, but before I had a chance he was back on his horse and off he went!"

"Oh, how romantic!" the young woman exlaimed, causing both John and Mike, who had not realised that she had set down her book to listen their conversation, to start.

"Romantic?" John echoed, wondering how anyone in their right mind could find the situation romantic in the slightest.

"Yes!" the woman said. "It's like Jane Eyre! Mr Rochester fell from his horse the first time they met, and they got married in the end! Oh, do you think you'll fall in love with him?"

John was quite convinced that she wasn't in her right mind by this point, and said "Oh, I'm not-"

He was cut off by Mrs Hudson, who also seemed to have been standing nearby and eavesdropping. "Don't mind Molly, dear – she has a rather active imagination, don't you, Miss Hooper?"

Molly hung her head, and went back to her book as if she'd never opened her mouth.

"You forgot this."

John glanced to his left to see where the voice had come from, his eyes meeting with a pair of pristine black boots at the top of the stairs leading down into the booth. His gaze travelled upwards, over long legs dressed in white breeches, a black velvet jacket, a navy silk stock and the face of the very man he had just been discussing, his curls disarranged now that they had been released from the confines of his helmet. John then noticed that the man was holding, to his great surprise, his cane. In all of the excitement of the afternoon, he'd entirely forgotten about it. How had he _forgotten_ to limp?

"Because it's psychosomatic. Obviously," the man said, as if he could read John's thoughts. "All the same, you'd better take it just in case."

John slowly reached up and took the cane from him. An awkward silence ensued – or at least, it was awkward for John; the taller man didn't appear phased in the slightest – until John broke it by saying: "How's your wrist?"

"It's been better, but I think I'll live. Still, you gave Marius quite a turn. Getting him home without use of the reins was a slight challenge, even for me."

"You haven't hurt both your wrists, have you?"

"No, but I had to carry the cane."

John was strangely touched that he'd bothered to go back for it and carry it despite his possibly broken wrist and spooked horse, though he was getting slightly mixed signals as a result of the man's otherwise cold manner towards him. All the same, he thought the best course of action was to introduce himself.

"I'm John, by the way," he said, offering his hand. "John Watson."

"I know," the other man replied with a faint smirk, taking his hand and giving it a firm shake.

John was rather taken aback by that. "How do you know?" he asked.

"Really, it's painfully obvious," the man drawled. "I know everyone in the retreat. I didn't recognise you, therefore you must be my new flatmate, who I was informed prior to your arrival goes by the name of John Watson."

"Sorry, your new flatmate?"

"Every cottage houses two. Surely you realised that?"

"Well, yeah, but I didn't realise _you _were staying here."

"Well, I am. The bottom two shelves of the fridge are mine – please refrain from moving anything from them. If you have any qualms with the violin I recommend leaving the house prior to eleven AM. Good evening."

With that, the man turned and walked back towards the door.

"Wait!" John called. "I don't even know your name."

The man paused in the doorway and turned back to look at him. "Sherlock Holmes," he said. "Enjoy your dinner." Then he was gone.

* * *

**Cover credits:**

Bird brush is by falln-brushes on Deviantart

Feather brush is by lelu on Deviantart

* * *

**Author's notes:**

One of my beta readers questioned the possibility of riding without reins. As a rider, I can assure you that it is most definitely possible.

If you have any queries, please contact me via my tumblr (iwillincendiotheheartoutofyou)

Thank you!


	2. Chapter 2

John awoke the next morning to sunlight filtering in through the gaps in the shutter blinds and causing the interiors of his eyelids to glow red. For a moment, the red transformed into the blaze of fire and streaks of scarlet blood across Afghan dust, and he jolted awake, heart hammering against his ribs. His eyes darted frantically about the room, and he was for a moment at a loss as to where he was, but as his eyes were drawn to the window, the typewriter beneath it reminded him of the purpose of his visit, and he lay back on the mattress with a sigh. _Pull yourself together, Watson. _He rolled onto his side, his joints clicking, and checked the time on his phone, which he'd set beside his bed. Just gone 9AM. For a man so recently returned from military service, that was an almost indecent lie-in. Still, he was in Sussex for R&R, and a 9AM start was hardly worthy of vilification. In fact, it marked significant progress – the brief nightmare that had woken him had been the only one of its kind that night. He threw off his duvet, stood up and stretched, his unclicked joints now taking their turns at relief. He yawned widely, then crossed the room and threw up the shutters.

A few hundred feet away, at the edge of one of the fields that skirted the woodland in which he'd walked the day before, a dark horse was galloping at a rather impressive speed. From this distance, it was impossible to distinguish the facial features of its rider, but it was undoubtedly a man of just above average height, and so John rightly presumed that it was the man he'd seen fall the day before – the excitement of which perhaps provided an explanation for his comparatively excellent sleep. What was his name? Something Holmes – Sherlock! It was impossible to forget so unusual a name for long. Sherlock Holmes' dramatic appearance and subsequent disappearance had caused a buzz of conversation after he'd left the evening before, but John had been unable to garner much information on him. Molly Hooper had gushed over his Renaissance looks and apparently brilliant mind, Mrs Hudson had spoken in the fond way that a mother might speak of a son, and nobody else had an awful lot to contribute to the discussion. Sherlock Holmes was, to all appearances, an enigma.

* * *

As always, John planned to start the day with some breakfast and a cup of tea. He pulled on a dressing gown and slowly descended the stairs while rubbing the sleep from his eyes with his free hand. Thankfully for him, Mrs Hudson was a woman with a great sympathy for the British need for tea, and a permanent supply of teabags was included in the cost of staying at The Gables. He filled the kettle and flicked it on, then found a mug, dropped in a teabag and leaned back against the counter while he waited for the water to boil. He didn't have to wait long, and having filled his mug, he returned to the fridge for milk. At first he didn't notice the dish on the bottom shelf, but as he was about to shut the fridge door, a smudge of red in his peripheral vision piqued his curiosity, and he leaned down to take a closer look. It took him less than two seconds to regret that decision, and he immediately jumped up and slammed the door shut. For the first time since his arrival, he began to understand the warning that woman had given him. Who on earth keeps ears – and human ears, at that – in a shared and rented fridge? No, forget that. Who on earth keeps any kind of ears in any kind of fridge? Was he sharing the cottage with a madman?

Unsure of whether to be concerned or repulsed or a combination of the two, he picked up his tea and carried it into the shared sitting room. He sat down on the plusher of the armchairs, and idly sipped his tea for a minute or two, his mind focussing on nothing in particular while he curled and uncurled his free hand, until he realised what he'd been staring at without seeing. On the mantelpiece, beside stacks of letters, was an impressively realistic replica of a human skull. One might say a _worryingly_ realistic replica of a human skull.

"Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio."

John jumped at the unexpected voice, and spilt scalding tea over his hand and onto his thigh. "Shit," he muttered, transferring his mug to his free hand to wipe the other on his dressing gown.

"Here."

John looked up, and hesitated for a moment before taking the tea towel proffered by Sherlock Holmes.

"Do you always do that?" he asked, turning back to tend to his burns.

"Do what?"

"_That._ What's so wrong with 'hello'?"

Sherlock smirked, and dropped into the armchair opposite John's – a black leather seat, with more elegance and less comfort than the other. He stared at John without a word, which quickly made John uncomfortable.

"What?" he said, a tone of uncertainty in his voice.

"Aren't you going to ask?"

"About what?"

"The skull. The ears. Take your pick."

"I'm kind of worried you're going to tell me you're a part-time murderer." There was no fear in John's voice.

Sherlock chuckled. "Not quite. I write papers on developments in forensic science and analytical deduction. The ears are my research. The skull's real, in case you were wondering. A friend. Well, I say friend…"

John laughed at that, and he thought he detected the hint of a smile cross Sherlock's face, but if it did, it disappeared very quickly. He leapt up a moment later.

"I'm going to change. I presume Mrs Hudson told you that the writers convene at eleven?" he said.

"She did, yeah," John replied, having been thus informed the evening before.

Sherlock nodded. "In that case, I'll see you then," he said.

John returned his nod, and Sherlock disappeared into a room behind the kitchen.

Dazed, not for the first time, by his interaction with the eccentricity that was Sherlock Holmes, John finished his tea, then returned to his room to shower and dress in preparation for breakfast in the main building.

* * *

When he returned to the main building at eleven, John looked around for Mike, but he was nowhere to be seen. He spotted Molly Hooper sitting on the other side of the room, and began to approach her, but before he reached her another man took the seat opposite her, and engaged her in a conversation. Not wishing to intrude, he stopped, and looked about awkwardly for a free table. Finding none, he decided to head back to the cottage, but as he turned to walk towards the door, the now familiar figure of Sherlock Holmes brushed past him without the slightest acknowledgment. He turned to say something, but Sherlock had already approached another table, at which sat a pale, lanky man with ferrety features and dark, somewhat greasy hair.

"Out," Sherlock said, his tone simultaneously bored and authoritative.

The other man sneered. "Oh, I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't realise this was _your_ table."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and vaguely elevated the corner of his mouth in an almost-smile. "You're planning to have lunch with your wife," he said.

The other man rolled his eyes. "Yes."

"I presume you'd rather I didn't tell her about your little encounter with Ms Donovan in the printer room."

The other man's skin grew a few shades paler. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Sherlock smiled deviously, and said "Oh, I think you do, so out."

The other man glared for a moment, then stood up, shoving his chair back rather violently, and stormed out of the room, muttering 'freak' under his breath. John thought he saw Sherlock's smug demeanour falter momentarily.

The essayist took the newly vacated chair, and said: "Sit."

John looked around, brow furrowing in confusion.

Sherlock sighed. "You."

John looked around again. "Sorry, me?"

"No, I was addressing the Queen. Of course I meant you," Sherlock replied, his baritone dripping with sarcasm.

John approached the table with an air of uncertainty, and sat down opposite Sherlock. Sherlock glanced up and removed a small reading tablet from his coat pocket. He slid it across the table to John, then formed a steeple with his hands on which he rested his chin, eyeing John expectantly.

"What's this?" John asked.

"The manuscript for the monograph I'm currently working on," Sherlock replied. "You're supposed to read it and provide feedback – not that I need it, or that you'll have anything to contribute. All the same, that's what we're here for."

John raised his eyebrows slightly at Sherlock's recurring arrogance, but took the tablet and held it at an angle from which he could read from it with ease. "The Science of Deduction," he read from the top of the page.

"In your head, if you please," Sherlock muttered, in that same mix of authority and boredom as before.

"Right, yeah," John said, and proceeded to read through the monograph.

When he had finished, he looked up, setting the tablet down on the table. Sherlock glanced up from his phone.

"Finished?"

John nodded.

"What did you think?"

John's features adopted a quizzical expression, in response to which Sherlock's brow formed a steeple similar to the position of his hands.

"You said you could identify a software designer by his tie and an airline pilot by his left thumb," John said sceptically.

"Yes, and I can read your military career in your face and your leg and your personality in your hand."

John almost jumped with surprise. "How?"

Sherlock merely smiled enigmatically, then reclined in his seat. "Proceed."

"With… what, exactly?" John asked, his brow contracted further.

"Dear God, do you really have no idea of how anything works around here? Your work. Show me your work"

"Oh," John said. "I, er, haven't brought anything. Sorry."

"Nothing?"

"Only my notebook, but-"

"That will suffice."

"No, it's not- It's just ideas. Notes and things."

"Good. Fine."

John sighed. "Look, Mr Holmes-"

"Sherlock, please."

"Right, Sherlock. I don't mean to sound rude, but it's kind of private."

Sherlock smirked, and glanced over John. "Afghanistan or Iraq?"

It took John a moment to process what Sherlock had said. "I'm… sorry?"

"Afghanistan or Iraq?" Sherlock repeated.

"Afghanistan – how did-?"

"Your haircut, the way you hold yourself says military. You told me yesterday that you're a doctor – so, army doctor. Obvious. Your face is tanned but no tan above the wrists. You've been abroad but not sunbathing. Your limp's really bad when you walk but yesterday you dropped your cane when I fell, like you'd forgotten about it, hence why I said psychosomatic – quite correctly, evidently: no cane today. That told me that the original circumstances of the injury were traumatic. Wounded in action, then. Wounded in action, suntan - Afghanistan or Iraq. You're here on your therapist's recommendation, I presume? She thinks you're haunted by the war. She's wrong. When I saw you this morning, your hand was shaking, yet when you felt my wrist for fractures it was perfectly steady. It's not danger that haunts you. It's normality. No, you're not haunted by the war. You miss it. Am I wrong?"

John stared at Sherlock, shaking his head in disbelief. This man understood him far better than his therapist ever had. In fact, he understood him better than John understood himself. "No," he said. "No, you're absolutely spot on. How on earth did you know about all of that – my therapist?"

Sherlock scoffed. "You've got a psychosomatic limp – or you had one. Of course you've got a therapist."

"Fantastic!"

Sherlock's eyes widened in surprise, and he lifted his chin slightly, the corner of his mouth briefly turning up again. "Do you think so?"

"Yes, it was extraordinary, it was… quite extraordinary."

"That's not what people normally say."

"What do people normally say?"

"'Piss off.'"

John laughed, and Sherlock smiled – the first genuinely human expression John had seen him make since they had met. The taller man extended a hand to John. John hesitated, then pulled his notebook from his jacket pocket and placed it in Sherlock's hand. It was hardly as if he had anything to hide from the man.

Sherlock opened the notebook, which contained rather more than 'notes and things'. It was the first chapter of the as yet unnamed novel he was working on. Sherlock read it quickly, those reptilian eyes darting over the page and his spindly fingers sifting through the pages. John watched in nervous anticipation of a reaction.

The one he received was not exactly what he'd been hoping for. Sherlock abruptly threw the notebook down on the table with a cry of "No!"

"No?" John repeated.

"No," Sherlock said. "Start again."

"What? Why?" John asked, rather more hurt than he'd care to let on.

"Because it's awful," Sherlock replied nonchalantly.

John's offence was rather less subtle now. "Excuse me?"

"It's awful," Sherlock repeated. "It's forced. I presume it's intended to be a detective novel?"

"Yes," John replied stiffly.

"Always is. For heaven's sake, at least scrap this insufferable Mary character."

"Why?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Because she clearly exists solely for the purpose of becoming an eventual love interest for this Arthur fellow. Her only characterisation takes the form of his lamentations of her being out of his league, and no detective with any efficiency – which Arthur clearly isn't – would spend his time pining over a woman whose sole distinguishing feature is 'sweetness'. Do you want to know what I think?"

"No," John replied petulantly, folding his arms across his chest, but Sherlock ignored him.

"I think that Arthur is you, and Mary is the solace you would like to distract you from the boredom of civilian life. Scrap it all. Or send it to an agony aunt – that's the only interested audience this poor excuse for literature is going to receive."

"Right, that's it!" John snatched up the notebook and replaced it in his jacket pocket, shoving his chair back with rather more force than was necessary as he stood up.

"Where are you going?" Sherlock asked, his tone surprisingly innocent for a man who had just insulted a near-stranger.

"I'm not going to sit there and be insulted by you," John snapped, zipping his jacket up to the collar. Without another word, he turned and marched out of the building, leaving all eyes divided between him and Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

**Cover credits:**

Bird brush is by falln-brushes on Deviantart

Feather brush is by lelu on Deviantart


End file.
